Kiss Me Slowly
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Stay with me, baby stay with me. Tonight don't leave me alone. Written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 3.


"Stay with me, Sherlock. Just- tonight, don't leave me alone," John says, pressing his forehead into his hands, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes for fear of rejection. But to his surprise, Sherlock makes an assenting noise.

"I'll be on the balcony," Sherlock says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from that ridiculous coat. How the hell it was still in one piece, John didn't know. You would think that after three years of Sherlock-ness, sans John's more calm influence, it would have simply dissolves into dust out of pure irritation, but no such incident had occurred.

John heaves a large breath, trying to equate the events of this evening with the past three years. Already this evening seems more colorful, more _real_than the years prior. Even his intense, yet brief, relationship with Mary, which he had thought loaned his life the color it needed, seems more sepia tone than anything else. Brighter than the relative black and white of the rest of the years, but not nearly as real as the Technicolor of this reality. He looks over from his position on the couch to see Sherlock's silhouette outlined darkly against the lights of London beneath him with the faint glow from his cigarette barely visible beneath his shadow while the smoke drifts up and faintly obscures the moon.

For a moment, John struggles with himself, but gives it up as a lost cause a second later and walks to stand beside Sherlock on the balcony.

They lean on the railing in silence for several minutes, listening to the ambient noise of the city. Or rather, Sherlock listens to the city. John listens to Sherlock's breathing, reassuring himself that his friend is alive. They're fourteen floors up, and some part of John is nervous at having Sherlock so close to the edge of a building, but most of him is too focused on taking in every aspect of Sherlock's changed features to worry much.

"So, is there a reason we're in a Holiday Inn, or was this just your idea of a fun weekend?" John asks after a while. Sherlock takes a drag on his cigarette, and then looks at John in surprise, as if he's forgotten John's presence.

He puffs out the smoke thoughtfully and gives a small grin. "A little bit of both. There's a reason, but not one you'll like." He inhales again from his cigarette; it's starting to burn low. "And I thought it'd be… interesting."

John scoffs. "_Interesting_. That's comforting," he comments. Sherlock flashes another grin, but it seems strange.

Something has changed in his friend, something down at his core. From the moment Sherlock had approached him in the Tesco's, insisting that he get in the cab right now that it was urgent, something had been different about him. Even as they sped towards Mycroft's office, where Sherlock swept in with John at his heels, nearly giving Mycroft a heart attack. Once Sherlock explained –to them both- what had happened and why he'd faked his death, he'd bid Mycroft a sharp goodbye and hustled John to the cab.

And somehow they'd wound up on the fourteenth floor of a Holiday Inn, leaning over the balcony while Sherlock blatantly ignores the room's no-smoking policy as if no time had passed. Sherlock's silver eyes seems to hold more blue in them now, but perhaps it's just that John hasn't seen him in so long.

"So what's the reason, the one I won't like?" John asks, still staring at Sherlock. He refuses to be embarrassed about this, not anymore. Sherlock returns his gaze steadily as he drops the cigarette to the concrete floor of the balcony and grinds it out beneath his heel. Instead of answering, Sherlock just gives an enigmatic smile and moves inside, heading for the bedroom door. "If you think you're getting the bed, you've got another thing coming."

Sherlock laughs, and that's when John realizes what's different. Sherlock is _happy_, that's what's different. When Sherlock had first shown up, he'd looked shattered, but just a few moments into speaking with John and he seemed to improve until now he is laughing and smiling with ease.

They stand by the bedroom door, John leaning one shoulder against the door, his leg still aching in a vaguely irritating way. Sherlock frowns a bit towards his leg, obviously irritated by the limp's presence. Then the frown leaves, and his face settles into something slightly more pleasant as he leans in. John has no idea if this is a good idea or not, but for once, he just doesn't care. He tilts up, holding his breath and letting his eyes slip closed as Sherlock brushes a gentle kiss to his lips.

As John slowly parts his lips, coaxing Sherlock into a deeper, stronger kiss, all he can see behind his closed eyelids is the image of Sherlock, leaning over the balcony with a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers while his silver-blue eyes reflect the light like a cat's.

They stay like that, kissing quietly, gently, not wanting to rush what is new and fragile on this evening where they are both so raw. But Sherlock keeps his word. He stays with John, that night and every night after.

Months later, Sherlock will tell him everything. Not about the Fall, or even what he was doing after, that will still be too soon, too painful, to share with another living soul. But he will share his childhood home, the memories and locations that formed his essence. They will spend hours in the large tree outside the young Sherlock's bedroom window, looking out over the grounds towards the orchards, and then John understands that this was where Sherlock hid while his parents would fight. And that night, curled in the small bed last used by an adolescent insomniac, John will hold him close and murmur promises, reminding Sherlock that John won't leave him. Whispering that he doesn't want Sherlock to run from him, that he has nothing to fear from John Watson.

But for now, John catches his breath between each kiss, holding it slightly until their lips meet again and he can breathe.


End file.
